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I’ve discovered that I have a major neurological malfunction—my fingers are not connected to my brain. Every time I sit down at the keyboard they dash about of their own accord, typing out gibberish in Chinese. Sometimes, just to fool me, they’ll even type something that makes sense, but it’s not the sense I’d intended.

One time, I came up with a whiz-bang idea for a newspaper column. OK, maybe it wasn’t really whiz-bang, but it was an idea. Hoping to impress the publisher of the paper, I fired off an e-mail detailing my proposal to write a column. They'd previously printed freelance articles I’d sent, so I brazenly told the editor that work I’d submitted before seldom needed editing.

Why did I do that? Really, shouldn’t someone of my age have known better? What had happened to the little warning bells that normally went off in my brain? Were they on vacation in Cancun, sunning on the beach, drinking little drinks with paper umbrellas in them?

What about the red flags that usually waved before my eyes? Where were they? (Hmmm, knowing them they were out eating donuts—which were forbidden on my self-imposed diet.)

The publisher sent me back a gracious response indicating she’d take the matter under consideration and would get back with me. That’s when I found out my fingers had held my brain hostage.

Upon re-reading my note to her—a mistake in itself, since you’re sure to find errors after you’ve already hit the send button—I was mortified to discover a small blunder. One so small I prayed she wouldn't notice it.

As part of my credits, I’d meant to to tell her that I belonged to a group of writers called the LDS Writers Blogck. Despite the message that my brain sent, my fingers typed out that I belonged to the LSD Writers Blogck.

I’d re-read that e-mail at least ten times before I sent it. I’d spell checked it three times. Why hadn't spell check told me I’d goofed? You’ll be happy to know that spell check was apparently a hippy from the sixties. It thought “Far out, man” was bona fide English and that LSD was a real word.

Then I wondered. Did my fingers know something about the LDS Writers Blogck that I didn't? Maybe that’s why we had so much fun together. Here all along I thought we were in the throes of creative genius, coming up with great ideas from our imaginations. Maybe I should have considered that we were all hallucinating from those cute little gelatin squares someone shared at our last get-together.

Hey, that wouldn't be our fault. We’re a group of Latter-day Saints. We’re used to eating gelatin. It shows up at every get-together as salads, main courses, desserts, and even in its pure, unadulterated form—the jiggly, green stuff. How were we supposed to know the difference?

No, now that I think about it, I’m sure those gelatin squares were not LSD, but merely a creative way to serve Jell-O. Besides, as writers we don’t need drugs to write. Our imaginations are close enough to hallucinations to be brothers.

Well, all I can say is that I’m going to find a way to get into my spell check and delete LSD as a real word, so that I don’t make that mistake again. Then I think I’ll go do something to keep out of trouble. Maybe I’ll bake myself some brownies.

Ooo, brownies. Far out, they’re almost as much fun as green Jell-O.

What's playing on my radio: NothingWhat's playing on my TV: NothingWhat's playing in my head: Midnight Blue by (?) Louise Tucker

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